Damned - Part 1: When Fire and Ice Met

When Fire and Ice Met

1.
John Watson knew what the man was as soon as he stepped into the room. The stench was almost overwhelming, let alone the powerful feeling of danger pulsing throughout John's body, yet the blue-eyed man posed no threat, no danger, only peace. He even requested John to move in into a flat with him. John should've turned him down, should've just walked away and forgotten him, but the doctor didn't. The blue-eyed man intrigued John in dangerous ways, when he was with him he was reminded of his glory days, when his wings were wide and white, before his feathers were stripped and his wings broken. But he knew it was wrong to be near the man. Fallen or not, no angel should associate with a demon, especially a demon like the blue-eyed man.
He introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective; a completely human name, a completely human title, but he didn't even try to be human. John could see the burning fires of hell behind his eyes. John had only heard whispers about the kind of demon Sherlock was, but John knew the whispers were true. Every angel and demon knew the whispers were true. The demons had no name because they did not deserve one, the angels had said, they were fierce and bloodthirsty, yet cunning and intelligent. They were all trapped deep down in the terrifying inferno of hell, where they belonged. Seeing one right before his eyes was something John did not expect, but he took no action, ignoring his warning instincts. Instead he followed the demon, moving in with him. Life was different after that.

2.
John stared out of the window of the car as it drove into an old warehouse. He stepped out of the car as soon as it parked, leaving the female angel in the car. She called herself Anthea, a messenger angel. John recognised the man standing not too far from him. The human face was unfamiliar, but the face underneath John knew all too well. It was his superior when he still had his wings, a well-respected angel. John wondered what he was calling himself in Earth, whether he used his real name, made one up or used the name of his vassal, but he wouldn't call him anything. John used his vassal's name. When John fell, he fell into his vassal, killing the soul inside, moving it on to the next life. It was just an empty shell being filled by a fallen angel. The vassal was like John, hence why it was chosen for him. He was a soldier as well as a doctor, just like John. Their personalities were very much the same, even if John didn't have much of one before he fell. Angels and their vassals are similar, that's why they're chosen.
"Have a seat John," the angel insisted. John knew he shouldn't have been surprised that the angel knew his Earth name.
"I do have a phone you know," John said as he limped over to him. Even angels have problems of the mind. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er, you could've just phoned me, on my phone."
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet, hence this place," the angel explained, "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."
"I don't want to sit down," John challenged. The angel looked him up and down.
"You don't seem very afraid," he said.
"You don't seem very frightening," John said, raising his head. He had never been afraid of anything, not even his superiors.
"Ha-ha yes, the bravery of the soldier," the angel chuckled. John resisted the urge to flinch. The memories of war swirled in his mind. He pushed them back as far as he could. Maybe the psychiatrist was helpful after all , he thought. The angel grinned. John could feel him reading his thoughts. Bravery is noble. The angel sniggered. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? Hmm, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday," John replied, ignoring the remark the angel had made.
"And since yesterday you moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" the angel smiled. A spark of anger flickered inside John.
"What is your business with Sherlock?" John asked.
"An interested party," the angel answered.
"Interested in Sherlock? Why?" John asked. He had no idea why he was getting so defensive. He tried a less offensive tactic. "I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him, how many friends you imagine he has?" the angel raised an eyebrow, "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?" John asked.
"An enemy," the angel replied.
"An enemy?" John frowned in curiosity.
"In his mind, certainly," the angel replied, "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"Well thank God you're above all that," John said. He saw a hint of anger behind the angel's blue eyes. I've fallen; I can say whatever I bloody want. John knew what the angel was like. He was greatly devoted to his superiors and his father, and loved to make everything big and grand. John reached for his pocket when he heard a beep noise. He frowned at it as he read the text on the screen.

Baker Street.
Come at once
if convenient.
SH

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," the angel said. John looked up at him, giving him a warning to not read his thoughts. The angel resisted the urge to smile.
"Not distracting me at all," John fought back, returning his phone to his pocket.
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the angel asked.
"I could be wrong…but I think that's none of your business," John snapped back.
"It could be," the angel replied.
"It really couldn't," John retorted. He could tell he was irritating the angel. John used to be a good loyal angel, especially to the angel in front of him. But that all changed when he fell, and he was glad to. Superior angels still believe they are the superiors of fallen angels, but they're wrong, and John was making that clear.
"If you do move into, um…" the angel said as he grabbed out a small notebook from his jacket pocket, "…221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful some of money on a regular basis to ease your way."
"Why?" John asked; curious yet offended. The angel put the notebook back in his pocket.
"Because you're not a wealthy man," he answered. John knew better though. Angels don't do things out of the goodness of their hearts, they do as their told, or if they get something useful to them or to others in return.
"In exchange for what?" John asked.
"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with," the angel replied, "Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?" John demanded. He has done no harm, nothing to disturb the peace. The angels don't even know he's on Earth. He isn't a threat.
"I worry about him constantly," the angel answered. Another spark of anger flickered in John. The answer felt rhetorical.
"That's nice of you," John replied.
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the angel said, "We have what you might call a…difficult relationship."
Like hell I would. Another beep. John grabbed his phone from his pocket. Another text. Bloody hell Sherlock, really? As he read the text, he weighed his options.

If inconvenient,
come anyway
SH

"No," John said, returning the phone into his pocket.
"But I haven't mentioned a figure," the angel replied.
"Don't bother," John glowered.
"You're very loyal very quickly," the angel smirked. John flashed back to the war, how he fell, the reason he fell. He shook the images from his mind.
"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested," John fought back. The angel stared at him, trying to get under his skin, but John was trained for that kind of treatment.
"Trust issues, it says here," the angel said as he grabbed the notebook again and opened it. John felt fear dare to creep up inside him. Emotions had become a lot stronger since his fall. It had taken a while to get used to them, but not without hardship. His leg was a result.
"What's that?" he dared to ask.
"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" the angel asked. The fear teased John. If the higher angels knew he was associating with a demon he'd face a penalty worse than death. Purgatory. The word rang in his mind. Worse than hell they say. John didn't want to find out if it was the truth.
"Who says I trust him?" John said defensively.
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," the angel replied. John pushed the memories back even further.
"Are we done?" he asked.
"You tell me," the angel answered. John stared at him, warning him to back off. John turned around and took a few steps before the word stop rang in his mind. He did, his anger making him vulnerable, weakening his mind so the angel could order him. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."
"My what?" John turned around.
"Show me," the angel demanded. The order didn't work that time. John stood his ground. They stared at each other, threatening each other. John took a deep breath, squeezed his hand and raised it, showing it to the angel, who stepped towards him. The angel reached out to touch John's hand, but the doctor flinched.
"Don't," he said. He could feel the heat and power emanating off the angel, could see the light glowing so greatly from him and his glorious pure white wings. Jealousy and envy flashed through John, but only for a second. The angel gave him a look, and he gave the angel his hand. The angel studied it, intrigued by it. John hated the feel of the angel; its warmth and power and care, while John was just hollow.
"Remarkable," he said. John instantly took his hand back. He knew the angel had sensed the power of emotions John was feeling. Angels never understood emotions or the point of them, but John saw them as a necessity.
"What is it?" John asked.
"Most people plunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars," the angel replied, turning away, "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"
"What's wrong with my hand?" John asked, trying to ignore the angel's truthful words. Unfortunately for John, the angel knew they had an effect.
"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," the angel replied, turning around, "Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."
"How the hell-" John cut himself off. He didn't want to be hearing anything of it; he didn't want to hear the obvious truth. He swallowed his words down.
"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round," the angel continued, "You're under stress right now and you're hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson, you miss it. Welcome back. But now it's time to choose a side Dr Watson."
And with that the angel walked away. John's phone beeped again. He heard footsteps coming up behind him. He turned to see Anthea standing in front of the car, typing away on her phone.
"I'm to take you home," she said. John grabbed out his phone from his pocket and read the text.

Could be dangerous
SH

A strange smile spread across John's face. He put his phone away and stared at his hand. The angel's words rang in his mind. What side was he on? He had no idea, but he had a feeling he had to choose quickly.

Sherlock didn't seem to care when John mentioned he ran into his arch enemy. But John knew better. Sherlock did care, whether he was going to admit it or not.

3.
Sherlock and John stood just outside of the crime scene. Lestrade was barking orders at policemen. John learnt Lestrade was an ex-hunter. His family was knee-deep in the business, but Lestrade preferred to keep back a bit.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.
"Starving," John smiled. They wandered away from the crime scene, Sherlock babbled on about something to do with a Chinese restaurant, John was only half listening. He was too interesting the two figures getting out a black car. Shit. "Sherlock…that's him, that's the man I was talking to you about."
"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock replied.
"So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited," the angel said, "Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.
"As ever, I'm concerned about you," the angled answered.
"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern," Sherlock replied.
"Always so aggressive. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" the angel said.
"Oddly enough…no," Sherlock replied.
"We have more in common than you'd like to believe," the angel said, "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."
"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock replied, rather offended, "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."
"No. No, wait…" John said, trying to make sense of it all, "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"
"Mother. Our Mother," Sherlock replied, "This is my brother Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"
"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft said.
"He's your brother?" John asked. How the hell can a demon and an angel be related? And who is their Mother?
"Course he's my brother," Sherlock answered, oblivious to John's confusion.
"So he's not…" John said, trying to find the right word.
"Not what?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know…criminal mastermind? Angel-gone-rogue?" John shrugged.
"Close enough," Sherlock smirked.
"For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the British Government and a small seat in the angels' council," Mycroft explained.
"He is the British Government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis or a spy for the Archangels," Sherlock added, "Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic."
"So when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?" John asked, turning to Mycroft after Sherlock walked off.
"Yes of course," Mycroft replied.
"It actually is a childish feud?" John asked.
"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners," Mycroft answered.
"Yeah…No, God no," John replied. He ran after Sherlock.
"You got shot, well, you're body did yes?" Sherlock asked.
"Hmm? Oh, ah yes, shoulder," John nodded.
"Shoulder! I thought so."
"No you didn't."
"The left one."
"Lucky guess."
"I never guess."
"Yes you do."

4.
John flicked through the book he was reading, but he wasn't processing any of the words. His mind was distant, going back through the events of the night. He had killed someone, something he hadn't done in a while. It was different too. Angels have the power to control how they kill, whether they want it painful or not. Fallen angels don't have that ability. John had to kill like a human. His vassal had acquired a gun, which John used easily. He had all the skills his vassal had, which came in handy. But it was the events after him that troubled him the most. How can Mycroft and Sherlock be related? Who is this Mother? What the hell is going on? He heard rustling in the background. Sherlock was going through some papers what looked like requests of cases. He discarded most of them.
"I can feel your eyes on me John," he said. John instantly looked away. Sherlock sighed and walked over to the seat next to John, sitting in it with his knees to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees. John looked up at him. Angels he could see clearly, demons were a bit fuzzy around the edges, but Sherlock was difficult. John could see hints of a demonic face underneath the human one, but couldn't make out what he truly looked like. He could feel the presence of Sherlock's demonic wings, but couldn't see them. "You've got questions, fire away."
"What are you?" John blurted out.
"Something I do not wish to be," Sherlock replied.
"No one wants to be what they are," John said, "Often they dare not to even think it, but the thought is still there. Not even angels want to be angels."
"Most, practically all don't do anything about it."
"And you did?"
"Yes. Somehow I found my way up from the bottom of Hell – well, crawled my way up – to the top where the Gate is. I got through by sheer luck, a one in a million chance."
"And you possessed a body."
"So did you. But as soon as I arrived at Earth, I knew I wasn't going to be like the thing I was in Hell. I changed, doing good deeds, trying to redeem myself, all the while being undetected by Heaven and Hell. It was easy, mind you."
"How is Mycroft your brother? He's an angel, a high ranking angel at that, and you're a demon with no name."
"And I don't deserve one. You must understand I'm different from the others. I feel John. I was born with the power of thought, a gift and a curse. And so is Mycroft, in a way."
"I don't follow."
"I don't expect you too. I'm sure you have heard of Eve."
"She made sure she was heard, especially when she went to Purgatory."
"She has another title. Mother. Father created all we see, he created the angels and the humans, but as a parent he couldn't have created everything on its own."
"Eve created the monsters, I've been told this bedtime story before Sherlock, but what's your point?"
"She didn't just make the monsters John. Father and Mother worked together to create test angels. Prototypes, in a way. Father created an angel, and Mother gave it life. She gave it emotion, a heart, a conscience. They were working quite well, until they had other thoughts on their mind. They rebelled against their parents, wanting Earth all to themselves. All that betrayed Mother and Father were destroyed; only a few faithful ones remained, those of which included my brother and me."
"I see, but I need to understand more."
"Even though we were faithful, we hated it. Feuds broke out between us, and our kind split in two. We created our own species. One half became angels with a heart, and the other became demons with a mind. But unlike normal demons and angels, we could reproduce, create more of us. But since there weren't many left, we didn't reproduce greatly. I, and my brother, we were not one of them. We were Mother's favourites, you know…The problem was though, the more they reproduced, the more angelic or demonic they became, and became less like their original kin. You know you're a descendent of one John. You're mostly angel, but there is still a little bit of your ancestors in there, even after your fall."
"Wait, you're saying I'm not an angel…was an angel?"
"No, mostly angel. 95% angel."
"Fantastic. I think I should've been informed of this."
"I think not. They're a disgrace. All of the angel side, besides my brother, have been destroyed, and most of the demonic side have been destroyed, the rest imprisoned, or so the angels think. The only reason my brother is still alive is because he remains faithful to our Father, as well as our Mother."
"Wait, the angels think the demonic side is imprisoned, but…"
"But they're not. I killed them. They weren't like me. They had become too demonic, too destructive, too evil. They had lost their origins completely. Somehow a few on the angelic side have not."
"So, you're the last of your kind. How does that feel?"
"I'm not sure. I try not to feel emotions, gets in the way of my work. That's all that matters to me, the work."
"Oh, all that matters. Right," John nodded. He felt hurt for a reason he didn't understand, or he did, he just didn't want to think about it.
"John?" Sherlock said.
"Hmm?" John replied.
"How did you fall?" Sherlock asked. It was a question John wished no one would ask. But he knew he couldn't say no after Sherlock's speech.
"In battle," John said. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Your brother was my superior. He aided me and a group of angels into battle. It…It was a while ago. We went to the Spirit World. Demons had been destroying everything in their site. As you would know demons and angels can't go to the Spirit World, only innocent souls can. But there they were, wreaking havoc on everything in sight; we were forced to go to battle. We attacked in unexpected waves and groups. The method worked. My group was ordered to ambush a small camp of demons. Our plan was to let Mycroft get captured by the demons; believe they had achieved a great victory, letting their guard down only to be attacked by angels. Mycroft was captured as planned, but there were more demons than we expected. We decided to team up with another group of angels and follow under their superior. I didn't trust any of them. I only work with those I trust, but we needed the help. You must remain loyal to your superior and your fellow kin, they say. Mycroft suggested we go in with stealth, but the other superior had other ideas. We followed his orders and went in head on. It was a stupid idea. He was ruthless and merciless and didn't care if his kin got hurt. I was in the way of his target. I think I was wounded more than the demons."
"Did he fall?" Sherlock asked.
"Defiantly," John nodded, "And I wasn't the only one he'd injured in that battle. He had killed angels before in other battles; we all just assumed it was the demons that killed them. He was branded as a hero. But this battle was different, this battle had witnesses. He fell for his crimes, but somehow he had convinced the Archangels I was an accomplice. Apparently I wanted angel blood to be spilt and I had learnt of what he had done. I blackmailed him into letting me join him and together we slaughtered many angels in the whole battle. The Archangels branded me as twisted and damned and that I deserved to be stripped of my wings. I guess now that they sort of wanted it. Pretty sure they knew about my ancestry, Archangels tend to know these things. And then I fell and tried to live a normal life."
"I didn't realise angels could be so cruel," Sherlock replied.
"Yeah, they can be. They just don't care," John said with a sigh, "Ever since the fall I've been trying to be as human as possible, trying to fit in with society, but as hard as a try I can't. I'm always different."
"I can relate," Sherlock said, "My brother and I, we a freer than most. I just don't exist on Earth, the angels refuse to believe that I could escape my bounds, and my brother is so well-respected and trusted he can do as he pleases. We try to fit in with the human world, but we just don't, and never will, and we've accepted that."
"Maybe it's about time I do the same," John replied.
"Maybe," Sherlock said. He jumped up off the chair. He walked to the doorway that lead to his bedroom, liked he ever slept, and hesitated there. He turned towards John. "Look, I'm sorry about your fall John, but I believe it could be that best thing that's ever happened to you. Your free, make the most of it."
And with that he disappeared into his room. John sat on his chair, processing Sherlock's thoughts. The demon was right. He needed to make the most of what he had. He was free, he could feel. He could hate. He could love. And that scared him.